


I Guess We're Falling Out

by Brimber, YearOf39



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Gabriel is three dimensional but still a bitch, Genderfluid, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Ineffable Flowers, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Smut, Theology, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 01:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brimber/pseuds/Brimber, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YearOf39/pseuds/YearOf39
Summary: Three years. It wasn't for three years until the demon appeared again. Standing there one late evening in his bookshop, clinging to a basket, with a sob in his throat and a shiver in his words."Angel," he said, "I've done something really stupid."Words that aren't spoken lead to mistakes being made and one demon and one angel stare down into a basket. Angst and domestic fluff and discussions of efforts and alcohol and cakes aplenty!





	1. Well Then

**Author's Note:**

> This is co-written with my Demon (Prince. Demon Prince). Who waited for 6000 years (Ehh, more or less. It's relative). 
> 
> To the world, m'love. X (Yes. Yes...loveyoutoo...)
> 
> This actually started because I've had a long obsession with Nannerl Mozart and I wanted to do a one-shot (Hahahahaha) with Crowley meeting her. …And then it just turned into a giant-ass (Gabriel?) Ineffable fanfic idea, which… I'm not complaining about (Me either).
> 
> Hope you like (Or love, it would be appreciated).

_ **Chapter One: Well Then.** _

Aziraphale swung the door shut on the young, crying, woman.

Eugh, a wasted mid-morning. Every so often, every few years or so there was always one. Well. Not just women. Men too. All manners of people on the spectrum of gender. Once there had even been a couple. He supposed that was the occupational hazard of having a demon as a friend. Crowley didn't even mean for it to happen most of the time. A conversation, a nod, brushed shoulders in an elevator, heavens, even just the sight of his face still and enigmatic behind those shades would set people to follow, would crave his attention.

And sometimes, due to their acquaintanceship, these lost souls would spill onto the doorstep of his bookshop where Aziraphale would have to tend to their bruised hearts.

_Yes, I know, dear._

_Oh, I quite understand._

_Please, have a biscuit._

_He is truly not worth it, oh, indeed._

This one, however, had actually seemed Crowley's type, and the thought of that had unsettled him. An amateur astronomer, they had apparently met at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich one solstice. They had shared many a night underneath a blanket of stars as she had shared with him the subject of the thesis she desperately wanted to pursue one day. He had never seemed to need a telescope, the woman – _Aria_ – had said as if using hers was just for show and he had pointed to the sky in the correct direction at every turn without even properly looking, "As if he had flung them into being himself".

A pot of tea, three Custard Creams, and a sympathetic _best to forget about him, dear_ and he had managed to be rid of her.

He was sorting through The Romantics (with a subconscious heavy thud to the collection of that awful cretin Byron) when the ring of the bell over the door sounded and Crowley came moseying in, saying nothing as his long-limbed figure flopped on the couch.

"Afternoon, dear," Aziraphale greeted him.

"Izzit?"

"Mm, a little past four."

"Ghastly hour," the demon yawned with a jaw that seemed to unhinge in a most inhuman way, "Neither here nor there. Five at least is interesting. Three at least is respectable. Four is…A Geography teacher in a bad suit."

"Were you napping? You could continue it here if you'd like."

Crowley rolled on to his back after shouldering out of his blazer, discarding it to the carpet and stretched, "Wouldn't be in your way?"

"Never," Aziraphale moved over to the door and hung up the closed sign, then casually, as if he'd just remembered, "Oh. An Aria paid a visit earlier."

He was hoping for a pause and a confused "_Who?_" – like he'd said about Beth, about James, about Caroline, Jessica, Trish, about Caitlin, about Benjamin, about Fiona and Kenneth…

But instead, there was a soft, "..Oh." which very definitely resounded with recognition and even a note of sadness.

"I told her to forget about you of course…Was I wrong to do so?"

He turned and Crowley's expression was hidden behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale moved to sit in the seat opposite him, his voice a little tight, "Oh Crowley, I am sorry if I did wrong."

"Hmm?" Crowley then gestured dismissively, "No, of course, you didn't, Aziraphale. You can't, remember?"

Aziraphale tutted at the gentle teasing.

"Thought I recognised her is all."

A simple statement, but Aziraphale's face softened. Ah. This again. The elusive Nannerl. Crowley convinced that every so often souls would be weaved back into the history of humanity. A child prodigy who had been taken from royal court to court alongside her brother, and while he had grown to fill the century with musical notes long remembered, she had been relegated to a mere footnote in history. Crowley had been searching for her ever since.

"Not her then?"

Crowley made a negating sound, "Thought for certain... with the name this time that the universe was trying to be funny... But it's still just a big _cockup_ of a lark… Anyway, she'll make her own mark, Aziraphale. She'll be one of the primary colours of this century."

Aziraphale smiled slightly. He made the mistake of Crowley noticing, as he rolled his eyes and moved to his side, his back to the angel, "Oh don't start."

The smile deepened.

"I said stop it. Can't nap when you're smiling."

Aziraphale went back to his books, but the smile remained. As the hours wiled away and the light began to dim, the angel's eyes began to become bleary. He had never taken to Crowley's habit of sleeping, but time began to drift as he began to pass in a meditative state.

The angel dreamed.

Or the closest to what dreams were in this half awake, half trance state.

The flitter flutter of memories. Senses. Flashes of colour. Half murmured conversations.

The feel of rain. It _had_ been a nice day.

He came back with a hand on his shoulder.

A soft, "Aziraphale."

For a moment he was caught between two worlds and his voice was half slurred as he asked, "Do you still have it?"

"Have it?"

Vague thoughts of rats scurrying off, of dancing feet, ebb away to nothing.

He was still sitting at his desk with Keats open before him, the question hanging in the air and fading to irrelevance now he'd been pulled back to reality.

"Oh, Crowley, nothing. I fear I drifted."

Bright Star laid open to the world that existed for an angel and a demon in a bookshop. Aziraphale's thoughts were back on the woman and Crowley had moved him to draw upon an old conversation with an old acquaintance that had inspired the poem... Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley's eyes scanned the words.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

With a flourished and speckled ink accompanying the poem "_For you and Yours, Mr Fell. Thank you again for your patronage._"

He slammed the book shut and for some reason blushed.

"I didn't know you met Keats," there was a dismissive sniff in Crowley's words at the pretentious prose that rankled the angel.

Aziraphale was up, and slotted the book back in an almost defensive motion, "Was probably when you were having one of your sulks."

Crowley balked, "I– wh– My _sulks_\- I do _not_\- I-"

The confusion from the demon at the barb stung Aziraphale's conscience and he rubbed his temple, "I'm sorry, Crowley. My mind is just rather… I've been at it too long," he gestured at the books, "Cataloguing them with a new system, and…" he offered an apologetic smile.

"New system, I'm impressed," Crowley pulled a face but then gave his own smile, "No need to apologise. The ire was earned. After all," He raised his hands in a dramatic shrug, "What would your plebeian demon know of literary matters?"

The self-deprecating jest only managed to make Aziraphale sad in a way he couldn't express. He knew things abundantly. He had a wealth of knowledge, the very universe within him. He had always sought out the thinkers of history. He'd…He'd gifted humanity knowledge! Aziraphale shied away from that thought, aware that it dangerously bordered on some sort of sacrilege. But still. It had been hard not to think of such things when Aziraphale had looked upon a new discovery, a new philosophy, had walked through the great museums of the world, ever-evolving.

Aziraphale's voice was prim in response as he stood from his desk, "Plenty. Now. Am I to assume you were going to suggest we should partake in some food?" The rest of the books could wait, and he desperately wanted to steer their conversation towards lighter subjects. Towards things that didn't involve souls Crowley would most likely never see again, or at least for a very, very long time. Towards things that they could discuss more easily. Topics that Aziraphale didn't feel so rotten because they made him behave most unangelic.

Crowley grinned, "And some alcohol to water it down. You know me so well."

Aziraphale moved over and picked up Crowley's blazer he had left on the carpet and helped him back into it, his fingers lingering a second longer than they should to straighten the shoulders, "Any ideas?"

"Ohhh…" Crowley lazily drawled, the sort of sound Aziraphale knew as the demon having a lot on his mind but little to say, "Was thinking we could just go for a wander and see what's out there to tempt us?"

Aziraphale gave him a look, but stayed his thoughts on the matter of Crowley obviously goading him to say _something_, and the two left the bookshop without another word.

They wandered down the street. It was getting late and under the cover of night, Aziraphale felt both safe and a little emboldened. He told himself he missed the easy affection of olden days, where men in suits and top hats could wrap their arm around a comrade as they enjoyed a stroll and nothing was thought of it, and it took a swallow and three heartbeats before he nudged closer and linked his arm through Crowley's.

The demon said nothing. No motion or change in his step or even a look acknowledging Zira's sudden need for contact. And that made it all the worse. He should be saying something. Turning to Aziraphale, raising a brow, a "well, that's new", but instead they just continued walking.

Well, he couldn't take his arm back now… Couldn't ignore the hammering of his heart either. The darn human thing was thumping faster than a hummingbird's wings and Aziraphale was trying his hardest to keep his steps even. He didn't want to pull away at this point even if it meant he could breathe easily again, and Crowley really didn't seem to mind. Or Aziraphale hoped. Physical contact between the two had never been their thing. They'd always walked and sat by one another, a safe distance between them to any onlookers. Close enough that it could be seen that they were at the least companions, but far enough that no one would think more on the matter of the two.

The thought that perhaps Crowley wasn't so unused to this crossed his mind. Did the humans he'd been around lock arms in such a way? Had they done _more?_ Had they held his hand as they looked up at the night sky with him?

"You've never taken me stargazing."

It spilled out without him realising it and he was mortified at the accompanying hint of petulance in the words too.

…But it was true.

The most he had ever gotten out of him was in some of their run-ins happening at night. He would notice how Crowley would usually be looking up at the sky, slitted eyes staring at the marvel of it.

And just once… once Crowley had noted, "Jupiter is especially bright tonight."

"Jupiter?"

"There." He pointed to the distant planet, Aziraphale followed his line of sight…

"Oh. _Oh_, it is... That's beautiful." He murmured in awe. Her wonders truly did have no bounds to the glorious things they were able to see in their shared time on earth.

"Mmm." Crowley hummed, eyes still focused above, "Lot of beautiful things up there."

There was a pause as they continued to gaze heavenward. Aziraphale licked his lips, "I'm afraid I don't know as much of galaxies and planets as I could. Or should, rather." So many tasks needed him to guide humans by stars, he really ought to know them better.

"That's because your head is stuffed with what they can do with flour and honey," Crowley had dryly replied, head tilting down finally to look at the angel, his face blank save the curl of his lip as he hissed, "Sssso, what's the target for the blessing next week?"

And that was all he said of the matter. He'd been a bit in one of his moods, and Aziraphale never pushed further to hear more from the demon.

He should have pushed…

"_Ah,_" Crowley brought him back to Soho, "That's what's gotten you in a mood."

"Me, in a mood? I'm never in moods!"

Crowley let out a soft snort, "Aziraphale, you've never asked."

As if it should be so _simple_, Aziraphale thought with his own annoyed retort building in his mind. He took a breath to respond when a flash of gold and the embers of a held cigarette snared his gaze, catching him off guard, and he turned suddenly fearful, but the figure was gone and... he must have mistaken the sight. Nerves high given the dangerous subject he was dancing on. He was really only good at the Gavotte and this was on the edge of a flaming sword he no longer possessed. He turned back to Crowley who was giving him a puzzled look at his sudden jerking. Aziraphale shook his head and cleared his throat. He gave up on the biting remark he had lost too in his worry, instead settling for gentle.

"Do I need to?" _Should I have ever had to?_

The demon was quiet as he regarded him. Sometimes he was so damned unreadable to the angel, which was a stark contrast to his usual melodramatic flair. It made Aziraphale nervous. And he wondered if Crowley was doing it intentionally.

He desperately needed to fill in the silence and he spilled out, "Do you love her?"

_Stop it._

"…Who?"

"The Mozart woman."

He knew it was a ridiculous question before he'd even asked it. And he knew it unfair to ask. He knew the question was immaterial. But his hands were trembling and something was building up inside of him and he couldn't explain what so he focused on anything.

Crowley tilted his head and the words came out bitterly, "Demons can't love, remember? That was pulled from us in our Unnaming. Isn't that what your holy brethren and sistren think?"

The angel's breath hitched, "That's not true. I mean. They do– but they're wrong… Oh, my dear, forgive me. I'm all out of sorts." He brought his other hand to his face. Why was he so caught in tormenting them both with this line of questioning? Why was he ruining what should be another nice evening of new food and wine and dialogue on the newest inventions by humans, or… or ending at his bookshop as many a night did, a good bottle and his record player going as they talked about various philosophies and what _did_ 42 have to do with anything, anyway?

Crowley dislodged his arm and stepped away from Aziraphale to look vaguely at a display menu outside of a restaurant. Aziraphale hoped the conversation was done, though he mourned the loss of the arm twined with his own. He stepped forward himself sheepishly and looked in the window, absently remarking, "Oh, this place does those crème brûlée cupcakes. Shall we try here tonight?"

Crowley said nothing.

"...My dear?" Aziraphale prodded.

"What is it that you want, angel?" Crowley's voice wasn't angry, but it held an overwhelming distance. Something so far and away from the angel that he didn't like it. Something the angel couldn't place but it was so detached from him that he felt he might even understand the loss of Her. "What do you _want_ of me?"

Aziraphale went still. He opened his mouth at first to try to answer that gnocchi might be nice but his voice fell silent. He had a feeling of a not so distant ringing in his ears that he was being cruel.

Crowley continued, circling around him, "This is your speed. What you wanted. No faster." He stopped when he'd completed his round around the angel, looking back to the window, "I can't do anything more than this. I've hit the bloody parking brake."

Aziraphale swallowed. He knew. Heavens he knew this was the limit he'd set. He'd even allowed himself to forget there ever was a set tempo. That nothing had shifted since the flask of holy water… Since the saved books… Since a hurled "_fraternising_."

He slowly lifted his hand and placed it on the back of Crowley's shoulder. Crowley turned to him, his darkly embered hair glowing under the halo of a streetlight.

Aziraphale stammered, "I… I never... said a full _stop_, my dear."

In one breath Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale and he stepped back involuntarily, bumping into the brick behind him. Crowley was leaning in, his arm resting above's Aziraphale's head, and seeing what was about to happen the angel panicked. He placed a firm, flat palm to Crowley's chest, halting him. His eyes flickered from his friend's lips to the confused eyes, and with all of the regret of his existence in his words, he whispered, "I… But I _am_ sorry. We _can't_."

They couldn't. Not yet. Maybe never. If they were caught. If their sides were…

If he ever let himself openly love Crowley…

Crowley blinked a moment at the hand that had stopped him, his expression playing out from one of dumbfounded shock, to realization, to a disgusted sneer, and he moved back, the dark glow of his eyes visible behind his shades. His sclera was missing entirely as he looked with some emotion that made Zira feel sick. The moment was gone, brushed away in a single moment of fear. But Aziraphale had left a new wound.

_Betrayal _rang out in Aziraphale's mind. _Judas wasn't so cruel._

Crowley slouched back away from Aziraphale's touch, as cool and casual as he could, despite the burning he felt at the cloth of his shirt. The angel's touch was always so _warm_. He propped a leg against the brick of the restaurant, arms crossed, his face now neutral, giving away none of the intent that had just been there. Then, as if discussing the weather he clicked his tongue, looked away towards the crowds passing by, gaze lingering on one innocent couple wrapped up in each other, "...I'm actually not hungry. I think I'm gonna leave, angel."

There was an undertone of a certain truth in those words but Aziraphale didn't want to fathom what they meant.

He kept his voice light, "…Alright, dear. Monet exhibit on Sunday?"

"Yeah. Sure." Crowley raked his fingers through his hair, "-z'it Monet or Manet again?"

"Most definitely Monet."

"Right," the lazy tone again, "You like the pastels," he then made a bit of a sound indicating a farewell and sauntered off down the street, out of the light and into the shadows.

Aziraphale knew he was a bastard.

* * *

Three years. It wasn't for three years until the demon appeared again. Standing there one late evening in his bookshop, clinging to a basket, with a sob in his throat and a shiver in his words.

"Angel," he said, "I've done something really stupid."


	2. No More Bowie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a kiss to the cheek for my co-author demon (Mm). I did my waiting (YOU did the waiting?). 12 years (hours) of it. In Azkaban, before I posted this. She knows what I mean (Yeah. You like fancy shoes).

It was the fear in Crowley's tone that almost undid Aziraphale when he had grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into his bookshop. It was raw and honest and throughout 6000 years the angel had been privy to all the emotions the demon used to conceal how he really felt, like an actor painstakingly choosing the palette of makeup to wear for a character before stepping out on the stage. Anger disguised vulnerability. A sneer disguised sadness. The truthful irony of Aziraphale being similarly cut from the same cloth was lost on him at that moment. The fact that Crowley was too afraid to conceal the panic in his words seized his heart and it was an instinct to take hold of him. There was blind fear bordering on being manic in those words and thus why he had taken Crowley and strode through to the back room of his shop, shutting the door swiftly and standing before it as if old habits were still ingrained within the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Awkwardness at their last meeting was, for the moment, not on Aziraphale's mind.

Crowley still held the basket in his grasp and he began to laugh softly as he started pacing the room.

Aziraphale's voice was low, "What has happened?"

"This!" holding the basket aloft, "This is what's happened. Well, no. Well, yes. But _I'm _what happened. I'm what happened _to _this. Oh shit, shit, shit, _shit-"_

"Crowley."

Aziraphale had meant that to be steadfast, a lighthouse to give hope to a distant ship lost to shore, but when Crowley's quiet laughter started gaining momentum he realised lighthouses were a complete waste of time when said ship was drowning in a tumultuous storm and it was being pulled apart plank by plank by some Lovecraftian monster of horror.

Or to be more apt, when Crowley was no longer on the border of hysterics but had instead chosen to go for Olympic gold by somersaulting twice from a handstand into the broiling storm.

"_Crowley!"_

In the midst of his laughter, "I missed the appointment."

"- What?"

"-I didn't go to - set time - all put into - I didn't go. I didn't go, I didn't ruddy go."

_"...What?"_

**~*~_Five hours prior, in a Bentley madly driven by a demon_~*~**

OH MAMA MIA, MAMA MIA, MAMA MIA LET ME GO

His hands were on the steering wheel turning a sickly white, a nauseating white – everything going, everything burning, stars falling, oceans turning to blood, everything going, everything going to literal HELL because of this spawn -

BEELZEBUB HAS A DEVIL PUT ASIDE FOR ME, FOR ME, FOR ME

"_AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"_

He flicked the radio off violently, the blood pounding in his veins was rushing to the same beat as the song and he felt sick and he was already late and painfully aware that at any moment demands would be coming through the CD player, demands, questions, threats in Freddie Mercury's polished silver voice making it even more terrifying. Why can't they bloody use phones for Christ's sake? The mobile telephone network was down thanks to him, they wouldn't have been able to get a hold of him it would HAVE BEEN PERFECT.

Only now, in a way, the silence was even more terrifying. The silence before a holy storm. The silence before The Fall. The silence before fucking Armageddon!

"This is _all _your fault."

He looked in the rear-view mirror at the Weapon of Entire, Total, Mass Fuckity Fuck Destruction.

"-All your fault. Damnit to – why this early? They don't even live on the moon yet! An entire universe to discover – have they not heard of Star Trek? There should have been at least one more millennium before this! One more lousy millennium! It was going to be the Age of the Stars. Is that too much to ask?"

From the basket of Unholy Hell, We're Doomed came a gurgle.

"–It is – you hear me? All your fault, all of this!"

He let out a cry and slammed his hands upon the wheel, and continued rambling to It, "I mean – I mean there'll be no more elephants. Is that what you want? No more elephants in the wild? Their memories – their memories are off the charts – and no more – I mean Bowie records! No more Bowie anything! Isn't that some sort of sin? A crime at the very least. He's just played Tesla in a film! – No more films…No more books…No more strolls, no more ducks… No more ice-cream vendors… No more …" _Angel._

Heaven, he'd squandered his time. Heaven, why did he leave him again? If he'd only known their time was going to be up so soon, he would never have left, he would have turned up to the Monet exhibit. He would have gone to any boring, tedious, whimsical exhibit he wanted. Just to hear that fool angel's soft little sighs as he bounced on his heels looking over the Vanilla Sky painting and then saying something entirely random like remember when we first tried vanilla bean eclairs as if the two subjects were any sort of related at all. He would have sucked it all up and not been so entitled about things that could never be because the angel was an angel and he was a filthy, piece of…

"I can't…"

He was still talking to the Vessel of Global Annihilation.

"Don't you see I can't? There'll be no picnics…We didn't even get one picnic…"

He was still shaking. What the heaven was he meant to do?

"Tell me what to do…" That last one wasn't to the Prince of Eternal Torment. It was to something else. He let out a shuddery moan. As if he'd get any sort of answer from there.

Not an answer from there, but he'd get an answer from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale.

_Aziraphale._

\- But how was he going to the angel of all beings given how their last meeting had gone? A breath away from a kiss. And then a hand upon him to stop him, and it was as if the angel had done the reverse of a resurrection upon him. He had stopped his heart. And he'd let it turn black and whither then too, to guard himself from the unintended cruelty of the angel. Aziraphale would never go out of his way to hurt him, but he was such an _idiot_ at times that it happened regardless.

_Fraternizing._

But who else could he ever go to? Would he ever _want_ to go to?

"…I have no choice."

Well there. There it is. He's being responsible. Because there is no other choice. He has an immoral obligation to –

He was bored of his own pitiful justifications and half rolled the Bentley around mid-speed without breaking to turn back to London. And even by Crowley standards the turn of his vehicle was perilous as he forced it not to crash off the road. Aziraphale would seize on to anything as he had fussed over his driving. Sometimes he would seize on to him…

Shit, he turned to see if the Smiter of Everything was still safe and sound, and by some miracle _(ha!)_ the basket wasn't upturned.

"Gonna be the death of me, you know that right?" he asked the still perfectly in place babe.

It gurgled again, this time with a happy giggle.

"_Oh, shut up._"

Crowley hit the rubber and flew to London.

**~*_Five hours later, in a bookshop in Soho, an angel and a demon need a bar but are given a baby* _~**

Crowley kept pacing, pacing, pacing and Aziraphale started to feel a sort of dread rise up from within him.

A memory of an unexpected meeting in a Japanese restaurant flickered to Aziraphale in that moment, the Archangel Gabriel in a muted suit of grey with the smile of a shark talking about reliable information being relaid…That things were afoot… _"The demon Crowley may be involved?"_

There was only one type of assignment that Crowley would be this frenzied about.

_Armageddon._

Aziraphale's eyes struck on the basket and his dread started to turn to terror. Such an innocent looking thing…Like a basket that merrymakers would take on a picnic on a Spring day…Or the basket in the faerie tale carried by the little girl in the red cloaked hood. Only it was the wolf carrying it now. And the wolf was a demon who had gone against every order and would burn – no – no, _obliterated_, he would be _obliterated_ for this. Crowley ceasing to exist. A universe without his Bright Star.

Much later, Aziraphale would never admit to the thought he had had at that moment of renting the basket from Crowley's hands and running to abandon it _anywhere_.

Crowley continued to ramble, "This thing. This thing that was supposed to have human parents. Doesn't."

"-But you were _ordered _to –"

"Just kept careening around the place-"

All previous commitment to remaining level-headed was gone out the window as Aziraphale hollered out, "Crowley, you could die for this!"

Crowley was unhinged as he continued to prowl, "Yes. No. Well. Yes. Definitely yes. But not if I go…" he paused, and then an idea formed to fruition, "AWOL...Not if they can't find me." the tension within him began to ease ever so slightly, and he set the basket down on a table. The prowling stopped. He removed his shades, discarded them and pressed the heel of his palms into his tired eyes.

"What?"

Crowley didn't answer. His mind began to fashion a plan. Then he murmured, "Not if I just…Leave."

Aziraphale swallowed and stepped forward and it sounded so utterly ridiculous, "You're thinking of going _rogue?"_

"—You need to take him."

And Aziraphale honestly believed he had misheard him, and he asked again, "- Sorry, what was that?"

"Well, they'd expect it from _me!"_

The shock had caused Aziraphale's voice to soften, in spite of the circumstances, and he sank to a chair – having to cling to the arm to ascertain this was in fact reality, "But my dear, this is the... I can't be expected to look after him on my own! I wouldn't know the first thing! I mean does he..." a hysterical laugh spilled out from the absurdity of it all, "Does he have an actual tail?"

He paused and his hand crept to lift the blanket in the basket to look before Crowley smacked his hand away, "Now you know that is _rubbish_. I don't have one."

Aziraphale stared up at him.

"- I mean – besides the snake bit – anyway – anyway! No, perfect! You'll be an amazing father. I have all the faith in you in the world. You can do it. Yes. A father – a kindly –"

"_Mother_." spilled out of his mouth, and Aziraphale clapped his hands over his lips before any other distress driven ideas left him. It _was_ the distress and startling situation he found himself in that caused _that_, there was no other explanation. He had taken such care the last 6,000 years with humanity, but it was always guiding men and women to make the right decision. Adults that didn't need him in _every_ way. But this… to know that sharing of one's own love as if...

"—Ah – ahhh – yes!' Crowley clicked his fingers and pointed to him, "Good. Good thinking. Yes, like Her Grace and all that! See, that's your thing. You're already thinking. All the good thinking. Bloody brilliant. You've always been clever."

"-Crowley, for heaven's sake – I can't look after a child alone. Least of all – least of all being _this child."_

Crowley's voice was low and dangerous and he turned and flopped down on his own chair to look at him from across the room, "They'll be looking for me. Hunting me down. And it won't be the idiots they send out…" One breath. Two. Pure fear, "….The Prince of Hell isn't stupid….The Dark Council..."

"—But – but I –"

Bitterly, "What would you have me do, angel? Live alongside you like some human husband of yours?"

Silence.

Aziraphale looked over to him with such tenderness. _Oh if only. If only life could be so simple. And kind._

Crowley buried his face in his hands and did not see. He only murmured, "Call him Adam. After the first man you saved with your mercy."

The only sound was Aziraphale's breathing. Slow breaths, he forced everything to slow, forced his thoughts to surrender to the same rhythm. Panicking is useless. He's panicking, so you must not. Take the lead, Principality. He's come to you to figure this through. Alright. Alright. The facts of the matter. He's stolen the bloody Antichrist. Well. _You _once gave away a sword. Why? _Why _had he done that? Think. Think. Think.

...Because he loves their little world. He loves humanity. He loves ideas. He loves neon lights. He loves old vintage cars, he loves his Bentley more than anyone has ever loved anything, he loves careening through the countryside, he sometimes forgets Aziraphale is even with him and swings about the lanes violently causing him to grab hold of anything, he loves souls...If the world ended he would have no more hope of ever finding the prodigy...He loves dark chocolate, he loves clever graffiti on the side of bridges, he loves hole in the wall pubs, he loves hollering at the telly at those house hunting in the countryside shows where couples would talk about how they were excited about the size of the dining room for future dinner parties, _"Oh quit pretending you have friends, Karen!" _he loves, he loves, he loves…

Aziraphale could not imagine the world Crowley loved so much ceasing to exist. Aziraphale could not imagine a world without Crowley. It was irrelevant which side won, because there would still _be no more Crowley._

Oh, he wished he'd come to him first before deciding to do this, oh this was all a mess, all a giant mess, but you couldn't cry over spilled soy sauce. There was nothing to be done about it now, the baby couldn't just be returned with a note of apology and a simple acceptance of demotion and a stern lecture from his boss.

"…I think it's a brilliant idea." He found himself saying.

Crowley looked up confused, "What?"

"…Nobody. Nobody would think anything of a family, newlyweds with a child."

Their last encounter crashed back into Crowley's mind and he very much felt like he could die again. The angel balked at a simple kiss and now he –

Aziraphale continued, softness turning to excitement, "We could get a home outside London. No one would question a thing and Hell would think you'd hide farther away. Oh…Oh, it would be perfect!"

"_No."_

And the 'no' held every ounce of hell's authority. It was cold and callous and ruthless and not a tone he had ever used towards Aziraphale before.

But the angel continued to push through, "Crowley, let's be pragmatic about this. If they can find you, then they will find me and I will need you to protect me."

The demon sneered, "The angels can buy the soft act, Aziraphale, but I know you better."

Softly, "Yes. You do. But how will I deal with the evil in _him_, Crowley? He'll need your guidance possibly more than mine."

And Crowley was up, looking every bit as a forged from the fire demon as he ever has, "- I won't be tempted into ultimately being your destruction!" And Crowley turned and swept through the door and through the shop and out into the world and oh Almighty, why won't you have mercy? As he felt himself begin to unravel. This would be it. This would be finally leaving him forever. No century-long nap, no temporary sulk before strolling back in without reference to the previous tiff but with an offering of pastries with Chantilly cream. Forever. Forever.

Heaven and hell help him he's a selfish prick.

He turned and strode back in, almost colliding with the angel who had begun to chase after him and Aziraphale clung to him, his fingers digging deep into Crowley's arms, so hard they would leave bruises.

"_Don't you dare leave me, don't you dare!" _the Principality ordered with all the weight of his position, marred only by ragged desperation.

"You've got to do it, angel, because I can't! Let me go–" mortified at the vulnerability he had allowed to escape, but Aziraphale's very life depended on this, "You've got to let me go and raise him right and then– and then he won't want to end the world– and he'll be loved– nobody could love him better than you, angel, and then the world will be safe and your books won't turn to ash and–" and he let out a sob, "-And you won't have to endure an eternity of The Sound of Music!"

So very, very gently, Aziraphale's voice was the same tenor he once used for the nurses during the Great War who were on the brink of breakdowns due to all the suffering they had seen, "Crowley. I can't raise a child. I especially can't raise this one on my own. If we do this right. Nobody can track us. We'll make it so. We'll be safe, we'll be secret. Oh, my dear, my dear Crowley."

The gentleness hurt too much and Crowley sneered in return, "Then find some human to be with. They like you, I've seen the looks you get sometimes."

Aziraphale blinked, "What?- _No!_ Crowley, that's _ridiculous_. I could never!"

"Come on. You can get yourself a husband with your little adopted hellspawn. I hear it's very _fashionable_ these days."

Hurt in his words as Aziraphale mistook Crowley's meaning, that he could be so easily pawned off to another, "Don't be insulting."

"I'm not. I'm not... Oh, Almighty, I've done bad before... bad to _them_... this is it. This is the worst I could ever do. They'll see me done in for this. It was a lovely time knowing you. So long, farewell, until we don't meet ag-"

Aziraphale by now had had quite enough, thank you very much, "Crowley, will you snap out of your dramatic fancy!"

"The end of the world or the end of my existence is FINALLY THE TIME I GET TO BE DRAMATIC. I WILL HAVE MY-"

And with the shouting, the baby in the backroom began to wail.

Aziraphale just gave Crowley a helpless and frustrated look before being the first to turn and rush back. Only as he approached the basket, he paused…

It's…Well…He's never really…

You…You have to hold them a certain way, don't you? He…

"…Move."

The voice was tired and Aziraphale obediently stepped aside as Crowley leaned over and from the basket took out a very normal looking newborn.

_No horns…Oh, shut up…_

Crowley moved the little one in the crook of his arm, and crooned so softly that Aziraphale could only stare in wonder. The baby's squalling began to ease at the contact, and Crowley turned away, rocking him gently. He couldn't face Aziraphale and so he swayed over to the other side of the room, "Hush, hush, what's all this racket about, mm? Almost as if it's the end of the world…Quite the dramatics, should call you Hamlet, little Prince…"

A hitched breath, "Oh, Crowley, don't. That entire thing ends in nothing but-"

"Yes, I _know, Ophelia_. Was a joke."

"Oph - I would never be so - !"

A cool, "No. No, you wouldn't, would you…? He was only _very good_..." his thoughts turned to that two-bit actor from long ago, a sour taste to his mouth.

Aziraphale slid back down on the chair and rubbed his temple wearily.

And given the moment of a temporary reprieve, their last encounter flooded back to haunt him. Three years. Three years since he waited at the art gallery, knowing even then he wouldn't turn up. That he deserved this. That it was one moment of cruelty too many. But he thought it might last a month at least, maybe a half-year at most...

He began, not knowing what he was going to say, but that he needed to say something, "Crowley…My dear."

"…Last babe I held was during the plague," Crowley interrupted with a murmur as he rocked the Antichrist, "Well. Last babe this young, anyway…Not even a day old like you little one, hmm? Oh, how I _hated _the 14th century."

...Aziraphale's eyes flick up.

Crowley absently continued, "Her name was Amity... Remember when the Virtue names were all the rage? So many Charity's and Prudence's, it got so tiresome, didn't it? Anyway. Only one to survive that infested little village...They all dropped like flies..."

Aziraphale softly asked, "How did she survive?"

Crowley replied bluntly, "I locked her dying delusional mother in the cellar so she wouldn't be infected like she'd infected her other small children in her terror to hold them and pray."

Aziraphale swallowed. He swallowed again. "You were doing her a kindness, dear. You saved her baby."

A bit of a smile without any mirth crept over his face, "She knew what I was. The dying are more acutely aware of us, you know that. Do you have any idea what it's like, a mother screaming because she knows a demon has her child?"

Aziraphale let out a shudder. This was all too much.

They continued in silence for a while before Aziraphale tried again.

"Crowley, about –"

"Do you really not know how to hold a baby?"

Aziraphale muttered, "I just haven't in a long while."

Crowley let out a rush of air through his nose that was rather too close to a laugh for Aziraphale to appreciate. He then came over, "Would you like to hold him?"

Aziraphale began to answer before the front doors of his bookshop banged open and a glare of holy light permeated the inside. Crowley let out a ragged cry of pain and in the moment of terror, the angel's first and only thought was to protect him at all costs. He jumped to his feet and threw himself in front of him, his own arm moving up to cover his eyes at the dazzling light golden pink hue saturating every nook and corner, so he could recognise the particular angelic threat -

The glow eased and the front doors swung shut as a broad-shouldered archangel with long gold hair almost to his waist strode in, clasping a shepherd's crook of simple but ancient and holy wood, fashioned from the first tree with love and blessings from the Almighty.

"Oh - Raphael, now was that _really necessary?"_

Aziraphale tried to push the demon out of sight, but the Archangel drifted ahead without any care in the world. Aziraphale drew forward, moving the door behind him half-closed.

"Hey," Raphael began as he came in and flopped on a chair, eyes straight on the Principality. "So. Funny thing. Was waiting at a small hospital in the middle of nowhere on assignment from Gabriel to report on certain shady things going on and oh look, the Prince of Darkness didn't arrive, Satanic nuns all a flutter, the demon Hastur screeching out for Crowley's blood, fireworks going all ablaze...And it didn't take me long to figure out. Treason. Would be happening. In. A. Bookshop." He took out a cigarette and paused before then asking, "Mind if I light up?"

The lighter was at once snatched by Aziraphale even as he trembled. Raphael looked up at him with a raised brow, Aziraphale's voice quivering in spite of the circumstances, "Do you have any idea what smoke does to books?"

The cigarette was suddenly lit, and Raphael made an appreciative sound.

Aziraphale swung to face the backroom accusingly.

A tired, "I'll air it out angel," came Crowley's voice, "Let him have one. We're all buggered now, anyway."


	3. Nature Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the Kudos, and thank you to my co-writer demon as always. x

With the cigarette alight, the Archangel leaned back in the winged-back chair and gazed up at Aziraphale, his dark roseate coloured eyes catching the reflection of the light like a prism. There was no denying it, nothing to hide behind, not when Crowley had spoken and revealed himself. There was no attributing the slight smell of acrid burning and brimstone that a sensitive celestial nose could pick up on - that honestly, Aziraphale had forgotten about - and blame it on some reptilian, sleazeball human author. The game, so to speak, was up. It was only a matter of time now. The thought of a last meal swept through him. Perhaps Korean Barbeque, with a glass of Chilean Shiraz. He then swallowed and did what any self-respecting man of crown and country would do given the circumstances.

He ignored the situation at hand entirely. “Tea?”

Raphael paused, and then shrugged, “Why not?” he sat forward and from his coat pocket he rifled through some objects, dropping a key attached to a red fish keychain on a small table beside him, an ashtray that looked like it had been made in the 1970s by a child as an unfortunate Fathers’ Day gift and a flask before taking out a small box made of walnut. Inside it was half full of pink-red tea leaves, “Hibiscus. Tend to carry my own.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied, then unsuccessfully tried to keep a little hope out of his voice, “May I take your coat?”

Raphael put the cigarette in between his teeth and shouldered out of his faux leather bomber jacket and passed it over, “Thank you, Principality.”

A little relieved (but still tense) Aziraphale also went to take the shepherd’s crook but Raphael politely shook his head and kept it close. He went and hooked the jacket on a coat stand. If he was going to stay for tea and if he handed over his jacket then evidently there was a little time to… Well. He didn’t quite know what. Pray, he supposed. Deathly silence accompanied the few steps from the coat stand to the kitchen and his hands shook as he arranged the teapot after boiling the water (he behaved and did it manually of course, without a quick miracle) and the good china he had for official business on a tray with a packet of biscuits. He then returned and settled down across from Raphael.

There was still silence. It seemed to scream. Raphael took the packet of biscuits and curiously looked at it, then broke the quiet with a confused, “Do you have any idea what’s in this?”

“Erm…” _ Happiness and love? _

He looked around for Crowley, who had yet to return, and spied him back at the doorway. He’d already given away their game, how long did he intend to just watch them?

Raphael continued, “Why...Why does it have numbers? Yellow number five. What does that _ mean? _Colours aren’t food.”

“I… I mean… I could get some organic apple crumble from over the road?” ..._ Of all the fruits to offer, Aziraphale! _

Crowley’s brows raised in disillusion, eyes wide, mouthing _ Really? _

_ I don’t know, you think of something! _ His nervous gaze retorted.

  
Raphael set the biscuits back, seemingly not noticing the blunder or Aziraphale’s discomfort, “No. Thank you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale poured the boiling water in the tea cup proffered to his guest and made the mistake of offering sugar.

Raphael grunted, “Sugar is a modern day epidemic. It is in everything and is a force that is slowly killing the young children -”

And that was when the demon decided to make his entrance. He swaggered in with his shades back on and without a baby, slouching beside Aziraphale as the lounge and Raphael’s chair were the only ones available in the main area of the shop, or at least he wasn’t going to suffer the hard-backed chair by Aziraphale’s work desk. Aziraphale noticed how the Archangel calmly continued to sip the tea he made, but edged ever so slightly towards the crook by his feet. Crowley seemingly noticed too as his smile of greeting bared all of his teeth, and his voice was a drawl, “And yet I know of _ another _force that kills young children.”

Raphael blinked and even Aziraphale let out a gasp of shock, crying his name in admonition, and realising he was outnumbered by two holier than thous he merely shrugged, “Just waxing theology.”

His arm moved innocently to the back of the lounge but he subtly tugged the back of Aziraphale’s coat soothingly or facetiously, the angel could not tell at that moment. Aziraphale’s tea began to quiver and he really felt that he had to set the cup back down on the saucer. Crowley’s fingertips started to gently and deliberately play upon his back, and after a few moments Aziraphale noticed the lingering and lilting beats as Erik Satie’s Trois Gymnopedies. A beautiful, soft piece. Oh. He was being comforting. _ Oh, Crowley. _

The demon and the Archangel considered each other.

There was no telling what Raphael was thinking, which was what was getting his angel all in knots. For a moment Crowley just looked at him and thought that the artistic renditions had him all wrong. Built more like Gabriel, he was a tall and muscular being, yet held himself casually, without the stern nature of the great Archwanker, Patron of Pissants. Yet despite the overpowering masculinity he had a beauty to him that Crowley was certain had inspired a sonnet or two. The unnatural pink hue to his eyes was all the tenderness of spring and love, and his lips were less the sort to kiss a blessing on the brow of men and more the kind that would tempt anyone to more carnal pleasure. And he knew it (_ smug prick angel) _. There were intricate braids scattered throughout his hair and he wore a white dress shirt, but it had more of an air of begrudgingly being worn out of obligation or Heavenly orders (“Tonight is a momentous occasion, you have to look the part!”) than from personal preference.

He was everything Sandalphon certainly _ wasn’t _. Why wasn’t he the one traveling around with Gabriel again?

Crowley sniffed the air, “Strange sort of nicotine, Archangel?”

Raphael scratched his jaw, “Er. Yeah. It’s exotic?”

Crowley stared too many seconds too long, drily replying, “Right.”

Raphael sipped his tea.

Crowley then flew forward in his seat in a split second that made Aziraphale who could not bear the tension, startle. Aziraphale was rubbish at poker. Crowley swiped his tea cup and when the angel recovered himself and moved to pour boiling water in to make tea Crowley with a flourish took out a flask and poured straight bourbon.

“_ Crowley _-”

“Shut up angel, I need it.”

He was bored of this foreplay, and got right to it, "Been a long time. Eh, Archangel of _ medicine?” _

“It has, belly crawling demon.”

“_Oooh_, we’re a pleasant one tonight, aren’t we?”

“I was supposed to be back _ hours _ ago to tell Gabriel that Armageddon had started off without a hitch. Instead, I’m here, looking at a _ hitch _. And it’s one of the worst of them all.”

“I’ll take the compliment.” Crowley grinned, draining his cup and pouring another from the flask, “How _ is _ great Gabriel doing, anyway? Still unaware of what his lackey lover gets up to?”

“_ Lackey-- You would dare bring up- _”

“Ah, you started this with _ belly crawling _. I’ve got two legs now if you haven’t noticed. Though I suppose you are still turning a blind eye to the actions of-”

“_ Don’t you dare blame him for any of that!” _

“Gentlemen, _ please! _ ” Aziraphale raised his hands between the now standing men, “I’ve no idea what history _ you two _ have,” he eyed Crowley with a good measure of _ we’ll discuss this later _ , “But whatever it is will have to wait. We have the An… a _ child _ in this home right now and something must be done about him. So a… a _ truce _ for now, if you will?”

“Of course, Principality.” Raphael set his staff back down by his side, returning to his chair.

Crowley glared still.

“....My dear?” Aziraphale prodded carefully.

“Yeah, anything you want, angel. Fine. Truce.”

With both beings now back to their seats, Aziraphale could finally breathe again.

Crowley’s tone still held bite but it seemed that it was really only for the principle of the matter (a storm had just been avoided, one’s voice doesn’t reign into kindliness so fast in the aftermath) rather than for the meaning of his words, "...Nature's first green is _ still _ gold though, evidently..." and then his tone assuaged after he finished his cup and he gave a little nod, "That's good to see."

...Raphael gave a tight little nod in return.

Aziraphale recognised the Robert Frost poem Crowley had referenced, but he didn’t understand what he was talking about. Clearly they had shared some sort of moment (What could that have been about? He had never mentioned Raphael before) but for the time being at least, it seemed they were good on the established ceasefire.

Aziraphale’s blood pressure eased a little.

Crowley poured himself another liberal cup of Bourbon. His flask didn’t seem to be emptying any time soon. He polished it off.

“So. You’re on assignment. That’s...New for you…” Aziraphale began and the demon cackled. He momentarily closed his eyes at his slip-up in manners, and he continued hurriedly, “What I meant to say is, you’ve been, er, roaming, for quite awhile now. I haven’t been able to get a hold of you in quite some time.” He hadn’t intended the last statement to be so pointed, but he was Principality after all and there it was. It was all very well that he himself had been caught occupying a demon in his quarters and was in possession of a missing Antichrist, but there were still certain responsibilities to his station.

Raphael feigned shock, “- I take offense at that. I’ve been doing things. There’s a movement named after me. Pre-Raphaelite or something.”

Both demon and angel said at the same time, “That was an art movement, Raphael.”

“Yes, but who _ inspired _the name?”

“Raphael the artist did,” Crowley answered, “That’s the point. They hated him.”

“...They hated him?” Raphael seemed befuddled at the possibility, but shrugged, giving up on taking that particular acclaim.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, his eyes softening, “Ohhh…”

Crowley swigged from his flask, he had obviously given up on propriety with the dainty tea-cup, “I do listen to your ramblings, Aziraphale.” His tone was beginning to mellow and he held the flask out to him. Aziraphale shook his head.

Finally, the Archangel sighed, “Do I really need to bring up the obvious?”

“Yeah, seemingly so,” Crowley replied, “Since none of this actually concerns you or your side since it’s a Hell matter.”

“...And yet you go to Aziraphale.”

“Funny old world, isn’t it?” the demon grinned. It was close to getting dangerous again.

Aziraphale got to his feet. He looked helplessly at Raphael with a pleading expression, before turning to Crowley. He shrugged, and so Aziraphale swallowed and moved to the backroom where he reached in to lift the baby out of the basket, paused, thought better of it and just returned to them with the basket.

Raphael had gotten to his feet and instantly he was moving about the bookshop, pulling down blinds and throwing protection blessings about the place. “-Honestly, I can’t believe you brought it here,” he sounded aghast.

“Well, where was I meant to leave it?” Crowley said defensively, “Somewhere on a highway on the return journey through Sussex?”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to be so stupid as to bring it here with your damned Bentley as your calling card right out front!”

“Er,” the demon considered, “Yeah...Yeah, that is a bit of a fair point.”

“Oh, Almighty,” the Archangel’s breaths were beginning to become ragged, “Oh, Almighty. Aziraphale, what have you done? What are you doing??”

Aziraphale shakily answered, voice barely above a whisper, “There doesn’t have to be a war.”

“See?” Crowley said, “He doesn’t like war. You can understand that of all beings, can’t you, Healer?” 

Raphael didn’t answer. Instead, his hand reached out and idly began to spin a globe of the world. Tonight was meant to have been simple! Finally, he said, “Well. Tell me whatever it is you both are planning. And before you start, think on the fact you actually don’t have a choice now,” he swore under his breath and rubbed his temple, “Principality, Principality, for heaven’s sake…” He turned to look at the trembling angel, and nodded to the basket, “...It’s in there? May I…? May I hold it?”

Aziraphale said softly, “You can’t,” he gestured to the cigarette, “Not with that...And the smoke wouldn’t be good for him...”

Raphael paused and then stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray and gestured a miracle to rid himself of the smoke, “Had to do that before going up to report anyway.”

They both hesitated. Crowley muttered something and then stood, a little wobbly by now, and came over, taking the baby wrapped in its crimson blanket, “Not such a silent night,” he said to the child as he made his way over to the Archangel. 

“Oh --Does it have --” 

_ “No.” _

The demon then very carefully placed the baby in Raphael’s arms. 

His breath caught and he stepped back. Crowley’s figure was tense and ready to spring but Raphael merely moved away to cradle the newborn. He drew back the red blanket from his face and ran his fingers gently down the baby curls. It was instinctive, as he had done to countless babies before throughout the centuries and the words spilled from his holy lips, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; Before you were born I sanctified you…” He let out a shuddery breath as he held a being of flesh and breath and heart and soul. His eyes looked troubled to Crowley, and then to Aziraphale. 

It was troubled but it was the first time Aziraphale had felt safe all evening.

“You held the Son, didn’t you?” 

Aziraphale swallowed, “Well, yes, once, but… Gabriel had more to do with him than me.”

Raphael moved back to his seat, the babe pressed close to him. 

“...So, what is your plan?” 

It was Crowley who answered, with a, “Congratulate us, Raphael! We’re to be married!”

Aziraphale swiveled to him, and let out a soft, “Oh…”

“- What??”

“Yes, he proposed just a little under an hour ago!” 

Raphael let out a moan. 

Aziraphale fumbled for the right words, his eyes flicking to both as he tried to explain, “- Well, we thought - well I thought - well, apparently with your answer Crowley, we both think that - that if we - somehow manage to evade both offices and… And raise… And raise the little one with… With love and guidance and - well - that he’ll grow to be good…”

Crowley muttering, “Or at least not the Harbinger of Doom.” 

“Well, not Harbinger,” Aziraphale began to ramble, “That actually means forerunner. The herald if you will. Like John the Baptist was before the Son. The Antichrist is more... Is more just the Bringer of Doom… Or… Just… Doom itself.”

Crowley looked at him. 

“Right, yes, and -” Aziraphale hurried on, “Anyway… Anyway, it wouldn’t be a real marriage, it would just be to give him a home…”

Crowley made a slight grunt. 

“You see,” Aziraphale tried to continue, “We’ve actually known each other… Being fellow… Associates… Acquaintances -” 

“Yeah. I know, Aziraphale. It was my job to track you.” 

Aziraphale looked _ offended _and his heart began to hammer all over again in spite of having managed to calm only minutes earlier. Almighty, Heaven knows. Almighty, they’ll --

“Although, I suppose it’s never actually stated as tracking. Much too ominous. More keeping an eye on you. For your safety, of course. _ Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world.” _

“--For how long??”

“Should you really be using that tone given everything?” Raphael reasoned, and sighed with a shrug, “The last few centuries.” 

Aziraphale dropped to his seat and his hand moved about frantically in search, before Crowley gently handed him his flask. The angel took a swig and nearly choked, but took another. Then he clutched onto Crowley’s sleeve, as if the world was going to tilt.

“...I never said anything. I never saw true harm coming from this,” Raphael squeezed his eyes shut and let out a sound, “Perhaps I did wrong,” he opened them and looked to them, “Tell me I didn’t…”

They couldn’t rightfully answer. 

There was silence in the room. The baby made a sound and his little hand moved and clutched to Raphael’s shirt. He tightened his arms around him.

Crowley snarled a little, “Why aren’t you calling down legions of angels?”

The reply was very soft, as if the Archangel was afraid to be uttering it himself, “No child should carry the burden of Heaven and Hell. I don’t care who he was sired by. Not again.” He then swallowed, “Right. About this marriage thing.”

“Merely an arrangement -” 

“Yes. But. Look. I think. I think maybe it shouldn’t be.”

Crowley circled the room, arms waving grandly, "Oh, here the _ great patron of marriage _ talks-" 

"Yes,” Raphael said bluntly, “The great patron of marriage. Look. If this plan is going to work, you need insurance.” 

Crowley’s mind went straight to another type of insurance he had locked behind the Mona Lisa original in his flat.

“In case - I mean - Two souls as one is more protection for all of you. For both of you. For the baby. For everything. It’s literally the purest form of protection."

Crowley swiveled to him, "You’re talking about a _ covenant." _

Raphael’s voice was sardonic, “Surprised you can still say something so holy." 

Crowley ignored the jibe as he hurtled on, “You lot only do that before battles. To strengthen each other or…” he made a dark chuckle, “Let’s be honest, keep each other chained to their _ twin soul _ and in check. Though, a lot of good that’s done keeping you in line with Gabriel.”

Raphael’s hand fluttered to his heart at the mention of his Archangel.

Aziraphale’s voice was a tremor, “Before battle.” _ Not again. Not again. Not another. Heaven on fire, kith and kin falling, the battlefield covered in ichor. _Eden had been a relief with its bright colours. For so long the sight of gold had almost made him retch. 

With one arm not holding the infant, Raphael gestured around them as if that answered that. The unspoken words of _ we’re in one now _was perfectly heard by all of them. Crowley let out a hiss. He found his hand being taken as Aziraphale twined their fingers together, and he turned to face him.

“I’ll do it,” his angel looked up at him solemnly, “I...I was once given a sword. I was created to protect this place. My very creation was to be a guardian. I’ll… I’ll share your soul, Crowley, till Judgement separates us. It would kill me otherwise. Let me protect you as best as I can.”

_ Holy water devour me, _Crowley thought. His fingers tightened around Aziraphale’s, and he murmured a mortal song lyric, it not being flowery or pretty with deep and meaningful symbolism like his angel’s precious poetry, but it had cleaved to him the moment he had heard it on the radio during their three years of separation. "Then I'll follow you into the dark."

Mortal sentimentality. Humans sung as if they had a choice where they would go, as if the Almighty would ever be merciful enough to have them enter a dark place together, if both the underworld and the heavens were full. But there was no in-between place. And certainly not for celestial beings, fallen or ascended. With two souls in the holiest of unions however, they end up where they are sent together. The deepest of vows, it would usually ensure one would not fall at all cost to protect their other as separation entailed an eternity of mourning for the other. 

It was meant to be romantic and the deepest of connections, but Crowley was a cynical bastard. 

Aziraphale lowered his forehead to Crowley’s hand, “Do it, Raphael. With ties that bind eternal, we will speak our vows.” 

* * *

“...And so the Principality is on the hunt for the demon Crowley and has asked me to take his post and oversee Earth.”

Raphael stood in the bright lights of Heaven before his small host of co-workers. He made himself keep to a rhythm of breathing. He felt sick, and his eyes were lowered, not quite meeting Gabriel’s. If his eyes met his then he would tell everything. It took all of his concentrated effort to ensure his palms weren’t trembling. It took a certain adjustment for one’s eyes to get used to eternal paradise or whatever this was, after being on earth. Below was full of soft, jewelled tones. Earthen colours of gently spoken secrets the Almighty had breathed into Her creation. Even when there was brightness, there was balance. It was soothing and beautiful. Apparently holy meant minimalist hell. 

Gabriel listened attentively, as concern played over Uriel and Michael’s face. Sandalphon tried to imitate his best. His fingers were pressed together thoughtfully to his lips (_ here's the church, and here's the steeple, and here's Armageddon to roast all the people _), “And you didn't see the demon Crowley anywhere around?"

"No,” Raphael breathed again before answering. He would not look at Sandalphon. “Unfortunately not. He's scattered into the wind like ashes." 

Gabriel let out a rush of air, "Oh, not yet, Raphael. But soon. Yes, soon he will burn."

Michael stepped forward, her hand upon Raphael’s shoulder. He almost jumped. Her voice cool and calming, “You have done very well, Brother.”

“Yes, hasn’t he? Remarkable. The Almighty bless you,” Gabriel gave his winning smile. Well, his game show host smile anyway (_ Welcome to Eternal Glory or Damnation! And now your host, Archangel Gabriel!). _

Uriel’s stern face assented in giving an approving nod.

“Well, I think that’s our debrief done, thank you as always for coming,” Gabriel nodded to each of his team and ended the meeting. After the other Archangels left he let out a long sigh and smiled at Raphael, but this time a softer one and then gestured for him to follow him to his office. 

He swung the door shut as they entered and Gabriel moved over to his desk and dropped to his chair.

“Well. This is all a mess.” He gestured for Raphael to sit across from him, but the healer had other plans in mind and came around, leaning against the desk at the side of his warrior. He crossed his arms and waited.

"Really, Raphael…" Gabriel sighed. 

“Come on."

Gabriel rolled his eyes and obliged by removing his suit jacket, untucking his shirt in the process. Raphael waited in silence as always as the scars were revealed with its complete removal, Gabriel's torso tattered with ebony and gold. Places he'd been hurt by the adversary in the first great battle. Wounds he had yet to heal despite all his efforts.

"Well, doctor?" Gabriel chided.

"Hush." Raphael focused as he placed his hands on Gabriel's chest, closing his eyes. When they opened again it was with an ethereal glow to them, the light of his power surging through his spiritual being, searching for the darkness to destroy and replace with the purity he possessed within him. But he couldn't reach it, could see it but his miracle was unable to _ find _ it. The curse of holy weapons reformed into implements of Hell, no longer blessed but now capable of inflicting pain on heavenly creatures.

"There's nothing else to be done, Raphael,” Gabriel spoke what he always said at his healer’s efforts but it was never any less gentle. “All we can do is wait for our final battle to destroy them." 

The holy glow dimmed and Raphael just lowered his face in his hands, dispirited. What good was he if he could not take away the curses etched in Gabriel’s flesh? 

Gabriel moved closer and took his face in his hands, “I’ll have none of this, my rose. I won’t have you overwhelmed on things you are blameless for.”

Not entirely blameless. Raphael was never blameless. He remembered a battlefield. Trenches full of their kind where he was crawling and covered in bloody gold, his hands reaching out and no longer able to distinguish from kindred and adversary as he sought for wounds, sought for curses, sought to heal, to mend, to knit back together, to bless. 

_“Focus Raphael, focus!”_

He heard his Promised call to him, and he had looked up. In the stench of battle he could not see him, but the vexation in Gabriel’s voice at his squandering drew him forward and reeled him in to go where his Soul told him to be.

_ “Raphael!!!” _

He had not been at Gabriel’s side when he had been wounded. 

Raphael shivered and his love drew him close, wrapping his arms around him. Enfolded in his tight hold, Raphael nudged his nose to Gabriel's skin to hide his face and breathed deeply. _ Lilies and cotton and the scent of the Before. _

“Look at you. You’re trembling. I can feel it here,” Gabriel touched his heart. 

“Haven’t you had your fill?” Raphael’s voice was hollow, “Can you taste anything other than the copper from this appetite of blood?” 

Gabriel made a sound, “Mm. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not a soldier.”

“No. But I stand by the shoulder of one,” he hesitated, then tried, “Lilac… With the baby gone, perhaps…”

Gabriel brushed his fingers through Raphael’s hair, his voice brooking no-nonsense, “The Antichrist will still grow to be a monster. Armageddon will still take place. Nothing changes except the demon is...I don’t know. Who knows what goes on in that strange creature’s head? Perhaps it’s a power play with his own supposed superiors. He does do unexplainable things.”

Raphael pressed his mouth upon a particular scar where his shoulder met his neck, the vile black speckled and spidered under the skin there. If he could not heal it, he could still bless it. It made him shudder. He could almost feel the curses, they were nigh on tangible. Dark whispers against his lips. 

Gabriel drew Raphael’s face up to him, not liking him to focus so much on evil things. He gently kissed him and was relieved when Raphael melted against him. Gabriel liked the kissing. It was somewhat new for him. Angelic courting had consisted of soft prayers, twined fingers and holy kisses pressed upon the temple for so long and then Raphael after one of his earthly roamings had returned to him and had shyly drawn him into his arms. The lingering kisses had made his heart swell in a way he had not known before. There was something to be said for human intimacy. And their clothes.

As Gabriel nuzzled their noses gently, he laughed. 

“Glad you find it all funny.” 

“I don’t. I don't. Truly. The fact that now we have nothing to go on is unfortunate. Armageddon must go on and we have no clues. It’s just...So typical,” Gabriel’s laughter turned to giggles, _ “So _typical of them down below. They are so incompetent. Still. Just goes to show what we are up against. And none of it is our failure of course."

"Mmm." Raphael sounded distant. 

But Gabriel continued his merriment, "How can you have _ no _ clue what is going on with an underling? _ How? _ Do they not keep an eye on their demon? Oh, if only I could be a fly on the wall down there right now," another giggle at himself. _ Fly. _

"...Gabriel..." An hour ago he had been made to miracle the cigarette smoke away before holding a baby by a fussing angel as a demon carefully handed him over. An hour ago he had held and blessed the Antichrist. Because he had blessed every baby he had ever held. And now he was lying. And would be lying for more than a decade more. He would be lying all the way to the end of the world.

...And he had not been by Gabriel’s side when he had been wounded. 

Gabriel's amusement ebbed, hearing the unease, although he misinterpreted it. "Oh, my heart. Do not fear. It is all as it should be and it is all written. Don't you see? If you’d like I can send another in your stead if you would rather not take the Principality’s role? Really, upon consideration, I do wish he had spoken to me first. But I suppose this night has been full of madness as it is."

“No. I’ll do it.” 

Gabriel feigned a shocked gasp and said fondly, “If only you were so easy to agree on all your assignments." 

Raphael pressed his hand to his lips then pressed it to Gabriel’s and managing a hint of mischievousness in his voice he said, "Well. Given the assignment is Principality for a time, how could I refuse the role of technically being your boss?”

The amusement in Gabriel’s eyes vanished at once, “What - no - that doesn’t mean -” 

The laugh was genuine as Raphael grasped him in another kiss, “Oh hush and kiss me before I have to go again.”

Gabriel only lasted a few heartbeats before obeying, but his hand snaked down into one of Raphael’s pockets and yanked out his lighter, "I know your secrets, Raphael. Huh! Smoking?"

"What? Hey-" 

"I knew you hadn't quit entirely!" 

Raphael groaned "Look, allow me my earthly vice. You're addicted to your physical routine." 

Gabriel would have spluttered if he was anyone other than the Archangel Gabriel, "It's healthy! This is but a _ pleasure _you imbibe in." 

Raphael mumbled, "Not hurting anything." 

Gabriel conceded, "Mm... Fine. If only since our human bodies have so much longer... My rose, thought you could get one over on me." 

This sobered Raphael back to the present in a sickly thud, "Yeah... Silly, right?" 

Gabriel pressed his forehead to Raphael’s, "I love you." He kissed him again. He really did like the kissing. 

Raphael closed his eyes and again focused on the rhythm of his breathing. Almighty, he hated himself.


	4. Meanwhile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Demon Prince here as my own angel has nodded off. Kudos and reviews are welcomed and appreciated (especially as we'd love to know we are taking this in the right direction for you lovelies). The real meat of the story is about to come underway!

“Ohhh, I’m going to miss you.”  
  
The tone was tender and maternal and very drunk, and Crowley swung back another glass of red as Aziraphale was by a book-case, gently touching the spines of his beloved books. The hour was by now very late, the Archangel had left to report to his inferiors and then collect formula and bottles and the baby destroyer of worlds was asleep, Crowley’s finger idly tracing the newly minted little hellion’s cheek as he rested in the basket.  
  
“Angel,” Crowley’s voice was just as pickled, “There will be book-shelves in nowheresville. Just take your favourites."  
  
“- I - I - A parent doesn’t have a favourite -”  
  
Crowley thought of a young man in a powdered wig running around Vienna like a toddler on too many sweets, racking up debt after debt and filling letters back home with fart jokes as opposed to a dutiful non-disappointment daughter (who, granted, had known how to play to her puritanical father’s grace like a violin and had secretly laughed at the asinine jokes), “Sure they do. You can’t… You can’t tell me they don’t and that the children don’t know… They know when you’re a tad gentler with the pages of other books… When you breathe in the pages… The way you slot them back into their places, just so…” He had once played an agapanthus and a daylily against each other. Exquisite rich colours, fitting descendants of the blooms of Eden. The former had been found wanting and had to be disposed of, but if truth be told he had grown to hate the latter too. It had preened too much in its victory.  
  
“No, I… I don’t know… I’ll have to sort them, I…” Aziraphale’s drunkenness was confusing him, and he moved down a row of shelves.  
  
Crowley groaned. How to reel him back. “We’ll do it later, Aziraphale, come back, neither ‘f us are sober enough for this.”

“I only need… I…”

He needed to hold one, that’s what he needed. One would settle him. One would secure him in this mess of a reality they both found themselves in. Crowley staggered to his feet, _ “Fine. _Eugh. Let’s… Sort by memory…” Aziraphale’s favourite memory. Aziraphale’s favourite time. Crowley stumbled down a row of books himself. He passed Shakespeare, Wilde, Poe… All treasures to Aziraphale, but his favourite… Aziraphale’s favourite era…

The time of discreet gentlemen’s clubs. Of dances. Of calling cards and riding gloves. The Belle Epoque. The birth of invention. The first Great Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. A foreign prince introducing the Christmas tree. “The world was on the beginning of a promise,” Aziraphale had told him in the Bentley ride on the way home from the burned church, “Before the Great War blew it all to bits. Oh, how I wished you had been there.” Crowley tried to swallow the hurt that the angel’s favourite time had been when he had been sleeping. 

A time of innocence and botany and learning and dances and a century of springs and illustrations in watercolour…

He slid out a book from a shelf. Small enough to fit in a breast pocket. He held out The Tale of Jemima Puddleduck wordlessly. The angel’s eyes widened and he seized it and held it to his chest.

“Thought you didn’t like the ones with pictures?”

“She’s different,” Aziraphale retorted, “Miss Potter, you would have liked. It’s not just pretty pictures, it’s art and... She knew about plants, and you would have liked her, I think. Or at least her plants, and…” Aziraphale blearily blinked. Holding a book close to him seemed to soothe his anxiety, and he looked up at his demon, “What book should we read him first?”

“Book - who?”

“Adam! All the books in the world - what should be his _ first?” _

Crowley couldn’t help let out a mischievous laugh, “Thought perhaps you would think something from the Bible-”

“Oh, _Crowley, _do be serious,” Aziraphale let out a huff, “There’s nothing in there of any interest… To a baby, at least. It's all so… just so…"

"Epic biblical proportions of buggery with some thou shalt not's and then some thou shall totally canneth?"

"That. I think. Anyway, I'd rather he hear all that when he's old enough to form his own thoughts on the matter. Now, I must have _ something_." And the drunk angel rambled off in search of books befitting for the baby.

Crowley sighed and called out, “Can we get back to drinking now? Please? He's not even a day old!” but was met with no reply. He gave up and turned, returning to the basket, where he drew Adam out and into his arms and curled up on the lounge.

After awhile, a cry of "Ah _ ha!_" was heard somewhere in the back of the shelves. Aziraphale returned, and sat on the floor before him, book and a newly opened bottle in hand. He took a large gulp of it first and handed it off to Crowley, who swiftly followed suit. Bloody _ finally_.

“Found it,” the angel said triumphantly.

“Perfect first book?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“Zira, if it’s not perfect enough, we can’t do a redo. That’ll be it. You can’t have another first.”

Aziraphale paused. He paused again. “Oh,” he said, “You’re teasing.”

Crowley pressed his face at the back of Aziraphale’s neck and chuckled, "Just a little."

He wanted to add that the angel's cologne was nice. Something lemony and a hint of spice floated on his tongue. That and the smell of crisp paper. Aziraphale was a parchment wrapped lemon bar, and his drunken mind told him he could easily take a bite. The small sober part buried under words of _ we're getting married _ and _ you're holding a baby _ and _ don't ruin what little good you have, idiot _ told him it would be a bad idea. And loathe he was to admit, drunken Crowley didn't always make the best decisions. To be fair, sober Crowley didn't always either, but at least he made more _ sense_. Most of the time.

He opted to crane his neck over Aziraphale's shoulder, "So what've you got?

In spite of his state of being, Aziraphale’s voice was rich and sonorous as he opened the little book before him, _ ”Le Petit Prince.” _

"Being a bit literal?"

"Oh, hush. It's perfect. Just perfect."

Aziraphale turned to the first page and took a breath to begin.

But the demon interrupted him. “Are you still rubbish with French?”

Aziraphale let out a rush of air, “I _ do _beg your pardon - and it’s hardly my fault with their - their - conjugal -”

Crowley let out a snort, “Conjugations, angel!”

“Yes, I said that! The verbs! Terrible. Obviously the language of Hell.”

“Oi,” Crowley was affronted, “Don’t blame us for French. It was Her that scattered all the languages at Babel.”

“-And the gendering -” the angel was on a tangent now “I don’t - I can never - the colour orange is masculine but the fruit is feminine! I don’t understand!”

Crowley had a craving for orange now and he nestled the baby on the lounge in his blankets before he stood and staggered to rustle up something to eat. He entered the kitchen and awkwardly clambered on the counter to fetch the good chocolate. Aziraphale took particular care to hide from him anything worth having, but there was only so much one could do to hide the delicious cocoa from his nose. This delight specifically was behind a ceramic sugar pot on top of a cupboard, tucked in a false box labeled _ rat poison _ , as if the shop had ever had any real pest problem _ ever _. He half fell back down with a thud and a stagger that was unbefitting to his reputation of being a cool and elegantly moving demon. He took the block, snapped off a piece and returned and flopped back to the couch, holding out the treat for Aziraphale to nibble on. The angel didn’t even reprimand him as he leaned forward and took a bite from the slice of chocolate orange. 

Crowley shoved the rest into his mouth, knowing Aziraphale wasn’t sober enough to be horrified at how he had just gobbled up chocolate from his precious Prestat in Piccadilly without any care to savour and continued the conversation of continental language, “Gender is - Gender is anything anyway, angel. Words, colours, people. Why should language be any different? In the end, they all get a good _ oh holy yessss _ when they want."

“What… What d’you mean?” Aziraphale blinked, turning and his eyes meeting Crowley’s dazedly.

“The big _ oooooooooooooooo_.”

Aziraphale hesitated, still confused, “Omega?”

Crowley threw up his hands as if he were a conductor igniting a crescendo from an orchestra, "Orgasm. Seeing the heavens. The stars. _ The climax and the epic bloody peak from which they cry out YES!!! _"

This was met with silence.

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, and he blinked as Crowley stared back. Humans may… but ethereal beings… that was _ taboo_, wasn't it? Demons though were… Well, he'd known Crowley was a demon, but he'd never fully considered… his voice was the barest of whispers as he asked in fascination, "You've _ done that?_"

"I mean... Not with others…” Crowley admitted, “The _ devil's tango _ I hear them calling _ that _ these days."

“But… but with your.. And you just…” Aziraphale weakly motioned towards nothing.

“Never once been even remotely curious about the capacities of these bodies, angel? I would think one as you would want to, well, _ indulge_, even a little.”

“But I’m an… an angel… It’s… To… _ Onan_-”

“We aren’t meant to be populating the earth.”

“I suppose…”

“Besides,” Crowley snickered, “If we’re doing the family thing and Raphael’s in on this together, then... The wife of your_ brother_ would be… _ Gabriel_.”

The sour look of disgust on the angel was nearly worth it, but his jerking to grab the bottle and drain it most decidedly _ wasn’t _.

“_Hey!_” he tried to snatch it back but Aziraphale was too quick, even for a drunk angel he was on his feet and finishing the last drops, “Now what are we gonna do?”

“As if that was the last of my reserves.” Aziraphale shuddered, “Won’t be a moment. Stay right there.”

“And where would I go?”

“You’re moving.”

“‘M not.”

“...No? Oh. All right.”

It was a couple of minutes of work for Aziraphale, but he returned with two bottles this time, one for each of them.

Crowley grinned as they gently clinked tops, “Cheers.”

“Salute.”

“So then… Orgasms.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks began to pinken again and he said quite breathily, “I hardly think. I hardly think this is the proper conversation to be having right now.” His hands moved to his cheeks. He was starting to get very warm. 

Crowley took a sip from his bottle. Aziraphale took a swig. Perhaps more than he should at this point but the thought of Crowley making the effort to… and… _ what did it feel like_…

A bang from outside the front shop door and suddenly the angel startled and scrambled up, grabbing the bottles.

“Wh- are you doing??” Crowley immediately tensed, as if the floor was going to swallow them up and take them down to the great abyss. 

Aziraphale froze and listened, finally stopping when it had evidently only been a passing reveller and after a moment mumbled, “...Oh… False alarm.”

“Wha??”

Aziraphale was a little embarrassed, “Well, I only thought - I thought Raphael was return-- come -- back!”

Crowley gestured around them, “What does that matter??”

Aziraphale answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “He’s - an - He’s an angel! I can’t have an _ angel _seeing - the drunkenness - !”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley reminded, “You’re an angel.”

“Yes, but he’s a good one!”

Crowley snorted, at once feeling protective of his beloved idiot and his voice came out with more bite than he’d intended, “You’re a gooder one.”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, “Ohhh. Oh, really?”

"He smokes."

"Hmm. Yes. Those strange," Aziraphale searched for the right word, "_Cigarillos _ he seems to favour."

Crowley fought a grin, "Say cigarillos again."

"...Cigarillos?"

Crowley giggled.

"What? What's funny???"

"Cigarillos. An' you."

"What _ are _ you talking about?"

Crowley waved his hand, "Don't worry, angel. Come. Drink and be merry." He patted the empty spot next to him.

Aziraphale obeyed, dropping beside him, “Now - now look. We must stop doing this. This is the last time. We can’t keep drinking, at least not like this. Have to be… Have to be responsible. Else. Else. Well. We may as well just have Raphael take him and raise him with Gabriel.”

Crowley pulled a face, “Bleh. That’d set anyone on to waging Armageddon.”

In this particular state, Aziraphale closed his eyes and laughed uproariously. Crowley startled at the unexpected display of hilarity from his usually subdued angel, “Can you imagine?” Aziraphale kept asking, “Can you _ imagine? _ Bed time stories from Revelation?”

“_Bleh_.”

The angel eventually eased and lent his head against Crowley’s shoulder. Again, unexpected, and what came to Crowley’s mind was of the ancient days of Egypt, where felines were revered to the point that Pharaohs would sooner snip off the sleeves of their fine linen robes when having to move, than to disturb a resting cat. Armageddon could crash around them and at this moment he wouldn’t move, so long as his Aziraphale desired to sit by him. 

There was a pause for a moment before Crowley asked quietly, “You ever just… think.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale replied, “An awful lot actually.”

“Yer, but. No, listen. You ever just think. None o’ this. ‘f it hadn’t been fer oysters?”

Aziraphale’s brow creased in confusion as he tried to place the relevance of the subject with reality, “What?”

Crowley explained with a shrug of the shoulder not being used as a cheek rest, “Was your first temptation, ‘ziraphale. In Rome. An' they were _ awfullllll.” _

“My temptation??” Aziraphale said, feeling quite provoked.

Crowley was on a roll, "And the brioooooche. With crepes. And cream. Shall I list all of your temptations, alphabetically or categorically?"

The Principality felt he really had to explain himself, that it was the most important thing in the world, “My dear - now my dear fellow - I am an angel - we do not -“

But Crowley would not be argued with and he continued to tease, “Said it yourself, an' I followed.”

Aziraphale took a long, deep breath trying to steady himself, feeling quite giddy and in all honesty exposed, “I’d had wine.”

Crowley shook his head, "Not enough. You wanted to tempt. Fallen to the folly of... food."

The demon missed the absence of Aziraphale as he moved back from him, swallowing, rubbing his face, then quietly, “I wanted a friend.”

His response was merciless, “Nahhhhhh. You wanted _ me.” _

Aziraphale’s pulse began to race and he shifted nervously, his plea small, “No, Crowley, please don’t.”

Crowley’s conscience pricked, and he gave a tight little nod before taking another drink of wine. And then he changed course, "So is that what it is then... Friendship...."

Aziraphale retorted, “Well, of course. A friend. And seeing as we were the only two that really… Understood one another. It only made sense. Didn’t it?"

“Mmmm.” Perfect sense. He had been drawn to him inexplicably and unexplainably since their first meeting before the Gate. Tethered to each other with a red thread of fate, like that old Chinese myth. How else could he explain how instinctive it had been to draw towards him when the first drops of rain had begun to fall? It had seemed so simple, so natural… It was only everything after that got them all tangled. Not for the first time the demon wondered what could have been possible had he not tempted Eve, had he just let the humans be and instead had approached the angel to… Foolish thoughts. He may as well wonder what existence would have been like had he not been Unnamed. A soft whisper in his thoughts - would we have found each other? Would it have mattered so much? _ Yes. _He knew it would have. He knew every universe, every reality, it would always come back to them and their little dance. He knew it as surely as he knew the patterns of constellations he had conjured into being when he had been Good and She had loved him. Not that it made any of this better. If it were the case then he had not only damned himself to all of this, he had damned Aziraphale to a lifetime of uncertainty and loneliness too.

“...Think I’m too drunk for this.” Aziraphale was the one to mumble, in spite of Crowley’s head being the one all muddled.

Crowley let out a rush of air through his nose, “Weren’t drunk when you jumped at the idea of a covenant.”

Aziraphale countered quickly, "It's for the child." _ And you. _Could he hear how fast this accursed heart thumped?

Crowley teased, “With ties that bind eterrrrrrnal.”

Aziraphale huffed, trying to gain his own sort of footing, and so he said, “Also. I know what _ you _did.”

Crowley tried his best at innocence, “I do a lotta things. What did I do this time?”

“What you said. Name him Adam. After the first man you saved with your mercy. Oldest trick in the book, you wily serpent. You give something a name, you get attached to it.”

Crowley tried to hide his smile but the best he could do was turn it into a smirk, "Well, I didn't expect you to drag me into marriage!"

_ Marriage_.

But now that they were both drunk and very alone in their little universe of books and wine and memories - so many memories - the word weighed heavily between them.

Aziraphale’s hand found Crowley’s and he twined their fingers together, “Dear,” there was a moment of silence that spanned both seconds and centuries, "....If... If you really don't _ want- _"

"No, I didn't mean-"

Aziraphale continued, his grasp tightening, "It's a lot to ask of you, and-"

Crowley let out a dark laugh. "And nurturing that to be like his father wasn't?"

"I'd understand if you-”

_ "Rarrghhh!” _ Crowley’s frustrated cry succeeded in startling the angel into silence, “Yes, Aziraphale, I'm _ fine _with marrying you, I just didn't know it would be shotgun-- err, staff and chains? Whatever Raphael is wielding these days!"

And of all the things his blasted, beloved angel could think of to say in reply after he stared a breath at Crowley in wonder, "Actually his staff _ becomes _the-"

Crowley thumped his near empty bottle down on the ground beside him, "Shut up! Shut up, you proposed and I've said yes! No takesie backsies!"

Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around Crowley’s and he squashed his face against the sleeve of his blazer, murmuring giddily, “Alright. Okay. Mmm.”

“Mm. Good. Now that’s settled. You haven’t yet held our son.”

Aziraphale’s face flicked up, his voice breathily, “Our son?”

“Yes,” Crowley said simply and turned behind him, crooning softly (oh, that made Aziraphale’s insides all ache, 6000 years and a new sound from him and it’s _ tender) _ as he gathered the precious bundle in his arms. He moved to Aziraphale, and noticed the way the angel froze a little. Shame filled the angel, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He had never hesitated in a living being before, had always seen Her grace in everything.

“Hmm,” Crowley said mischievously, “Changed my mind. We’re calling him Vlad.”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open, “What?? No!" 

Crowley gave a soft sigh, "Oh, the sweet little impaler." 

"Crowley -- for -- give me Adam!" Aziraphale snapped crossly. 

Crowley feigned confusion, “What? It’s _ literary, _ isn' it?”

"So is Adam!" Aziraphale held out his arms, “Now. Now give him to me.”

Crowley did as he was asked, gently passing the baby into the arms of an angel. Aziraphale’s eyes held apprehension and… And need. Crowley’s eyes were soft, and he gently brushed his arm.

Aziraphale looked down at the baby. 

He hesitantly asked, "...Is he inherently....?"

"Evil? Not really. He's... he's a baby. Still open to the influences around him."

There was silence before a quiet, hushed, "Hello there, Adam." He ran a finger along what little soft hair sprouted from his head. For being the Antichrist he certainly didn’t look very... Though that was the idea, wasn’t it. But… But he was just a baby. A child. And all children were born innocent. Even this one. It was odd, really. He’d held the Son once too. When He was only a few days old. Aziraphale remembered the wonder of a _ human _ made from God but this time without the dust of creation. An actual blood and flesh being that would grow and age and learn and know what it truly meant to be human. He wondered what sort of things He’d go through with a mortal life. Would He like games, have a favourite food, find a favoured profession? And what of the emotions? Would He ever be afraid? Sad? Would He know love in the way humans do?

Looking at the babe in his arms now, it sunk down in his very soul that he saw little difference between the two, and the thought intrigued and terrified him at his core as to what that could mean.

Crowley snapped him back to the present with a thoughtful look, "Oddly suits him, the name. He looks like one."

"He does." Aziraphale conceded.

Crowley scratched at his chin, cleared his throat, "....So... Mother.... You sure about it?"

"Should I not??"

"No. No. Not that... Just never... You've never seemed interested before."

"I have done it when the occasion has called for it. Much easier for a woman to enter a convent than a man, you know."

Crowley plucked a bit of lint at his jacket, "Right, right… What'd you think of it?"

"Neither here nor there on my feelings, really... I must say though their form has a more aesthetically attractive quality to me. Men are-"

"Cocks jutting out like bloody lances with shrivelled figs."

Aziraphale sniffed, "If we must be vulgar about it."

Crowley swished the contents of his bottle, "Testosterone is one thing, male dominance and marking territory- _ Thank somebody the human men don’t do that- _ but... yeah. Yeah. They're... softer."

"And the breasts. The bosom to hold a child to... it's endearing."

"Woman doesn't need-"

"You know what I mean."

“Mmmmm.”

They sat in a nice, comfortable silence for awhile, as Aziraphale began to rock Adam gently. “I love him already. I know you think it doesn’t count because I’m an angel and meant to love everything, but there is a distinction between loving..” he turned to his demon, their eyes meeting, “And love.”

Crowley realised he hadn’t replied after a while. “Never said it doesn’t count, angel.”

Aziraphale sniffed, “Yes, yes you have.”

“When??”

One arm gesturing, “Bordeaux. During. Something. Involved. A blessing or… Anyway. I loved the.. little... The pastry… With the blackberry jam.. The.... And you said it didn’t count because-“

“Yeah, because you love all food!”

The angel let out a tart. “Not true. Carob is the devil.”

Crowley chuckled, "Not my fault. She was the one thought it was funny. Like the zebra looking thing."

"Okapi."

"Ble-- Err. _ Gesundheit_."

Aziraphale cuddled against him, their son now in both their arms, and then let out an “Ohhh. I was starting to read to him." He picked up the book again, and nuzzling the demon, he turned to the first page, and in his best (atrocious, but Crowley wouldn’t say anything) French, “Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called _ True Stories from Nature _, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing…”

"Aziraphale."

"Hmm?"

"Maybe we should read to him when he's a bit more… able to understand?"

"But-"

"He's also asleep." Crowley nodded at the bundle.

"....Oh. He is, isn't he."

"Just born, been alive some," Crowley checked his watch, "Eight odd hours.”

“Eight hours, ohhhh,” the angel breathed, “Oh Crowley. Crowley,” he tugged at the demon, “Oh, Crowley, it’s his _ birthday. _Oh, Crowley, it’s his birthday, we need to get him a present.”

“Noooooo. Tha’ only starts on their first birthday.” 

Aziraphale blinked and tried to calculate, “But it is his first birthday."

"No, his first birthday s'when he turns one."

Aziraphale counted on his fingers, “But that’s his second birthday."

"’Ziraphale, stop iiiiiiiit," Crowley begged.

“But we should do something still..”

“You just want cake,” Crowley very wisely stated, making his angel burst into a fit of giggles.

"There must be cake at birthdays." Aziraphale said around a yawn.

"Tired, angel?"

"Mm. Armageddon. Alcohol…. Adam."

"Take a nap. They're glorious things for avoiding problems a few hours."

"Certain? I could-"

"Naaah." Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale and let him sleepily sigh into his coat, "Rest."

The three curled together on the lounge, angel and demon wrapped up around their mortal son. Aziraphale softly yawned again, contentedly sighed as his cheek pressed further into Crowley's chest. He didn't smell of the brimstone that tended to cling to him after meetings with other demons. Instead, he had the aroma of a well used fireplace, woody and the distinct hint of charcoal. It reminded Aziraphale of late nights between them, spent discussing whatever their hearts fancied.

_Home _ was one of Aziraphale's final thoughts before giving in to the exceedingly large amount of alcohol he had consumed. _ Home… family… Our family…_

Crowley tucked the sleeping angel's crop of golden, feathery hair under his chin. For the moment, everything was finally calm. No end of the world to worry about, no Archangels to chide him for his so called evil deeds, no _ Dagon _ on the radio threatening him. Just his angel and their newly born boy.

He couldn't even help but smile as Aziraphale began to softly glow as his breathing evened, so full of love and light and purity was his angel. Such _ goodness _ and now they were going to be circling each other far more than they had through all of time. Aziraphale bloomed brighter still as he slept, and Crowley vaguely wondered just what part of it all had made him so happy.

But the radiance of it didn't stop. It became stronger and brighter… brighter still… _ too bright! _

Crowley swept Adam from the sleeping atomic luminous and jolted forward, shielding the babe in his jacket. Not enough, he could feel the start of blistering at his skin. Black wings unfurled as he wrapped them both, kneeling down, the holy light so strong he felt a few feather tips curl at the intensity. He crooned to Adam as the whole scene disturbed his nap, "It's all right, boy. We're fine. We're only about to maybe be devoured by holy, holy, holy. It's fine."

But as quick as it started the light was gone. Crowley blinked as his eyes adjusted back to the dim lighting of the room. He tensed, waiting for anything else that might occur and discorporate his form but… nothing. He stood up and moved a wing, peaked through a few smouldering feathers, and gaped.

Aziraphale was… he was….

_She was_…

Still asleep. Still utterly passed out but now. _ Now_.

Aziraphale wasn't going to be pleased. The coat no longer fit… _nothing _fit the way it had before. She was shorter, smaller than her form as Mr. Fell ever was. She still held those lovely curves but everything had shifted. Shoes sitting loose around tinier feet. Hair even wilder looking now on this form with the tips like she was now some Victorian rocker. Crowley liked it.

He held Adam tightly, now calm and falling back asleep in his arms. Crowley pulled his wings back in, looked between sleeping angel and sleeping child.

"Your mother is certainly a _ wonder_, boy."


End file.
